Hard to Tell
by Arty d'Arc
Summary: It was a simple route. "Too simple," Arthur had said, months before he rode it. "Johansen won't buy it. Streets don't work that way; chases don't work that way."  If he knew then what he knew now . Arthur/Eames.
1. Part I

"These Days It's Hard to Tell"

**part one.**

-—-

"_I was out paying close attention_

_Or was I lost inside my thoughts_

_These days it's hard to tell what's outside from what's in my mind."_

_**Cloud Cult - "Chemicals Collide"**_

-—-

It was a simple route.

One street, wrapping around parks and hotels and museums featuring Klimt on the side, and no turns. Street lamps lined it; projections crossed it; other cars occasionally passed Arthur as he rode the motorcycle to the train tracks just outside of town (it was such a cliche—he hadn't wanted it, but there it was).

Arthur did most of the passing though.

He revved the engine, watched the speedometer crank up. He didn't know where security had gone and he couldn't care. The job was still unfinished, and he was oh so close. Just a few more miles, and done. Just a stretch of the hand, and he could snatch the file, ride, memorize the data—and done.

Another bike came up beside him, shielded eyes turning to look at him. _Security_, he thought, and there was a thread of fear sewing up his back, tightening the muscles in a painful way.

But the job was still unfinished, and he was oh so close.

He couldn't care. Not now.

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes two mistakes._

_He assumes that Dom is in his right mind._

_He assumes that Fischer is untrained._

_He thinks about them often. When he triple checks his data, when he triple checks his extractor. He thinks this means he's learned from them._

_He thinks._

-—-

It was a simple route.

"Too simple," Arthur had said, months before he rode it (_if he knew then what he knew now_). "Johansen won't buy it. Streets don't work that way; chases don't work that way."

"Too complicated though and we could actually lose him in the dream," Ariadne had pointed out. She had stepped forward then, like she was asserting herself, but Arthur hadn't missed the way she came in just between him and Eames.

(_She always liked breaking up their pissing matches. She was too nosy for it to be peacemaking, so she probably just didn't understand their purpose yet. Probably kept hoping that if she just pushed enough, something would give. Too bad there was nothing to give._)

"There are easier ways to do this, you know," he had said. "We really don't need to make this a race. We've dealt with security before."

And Eames had snorted. "With so few staff? I doubt it."

(_And here it goes:_)

"We could get more staff."

"We could be not doing this job at all."

"Please. Enlighten us again, won't you, Eames?"

"I'm just saying, Johansen is trained."

"And we can handle it."

"Not if you're just humoring me, Arthur, please. I have my dignity and my stripes. You're not mentally prepared to work on this."

"Only because I checked and the training didn't work."

"Which is I'm sure a lovely story he would like you to believe."

"I'm being more than safe playing by your instinct."

"Well, you're certainly playing, that is a word I'd use."

"I've done all the research—"

"Oh, yes. Matthew Johansen, aged fifty three, wife Susannah Thomas, no children, twin brother Gary Johansen, parents deceased—all riveting, useful stuff."

"And he hired an extractor, three years ago, to teach him to defend himself and he failed. It was Marques, you really think he knows how to train someone?"

"Marques has a lovely mouth and a knack for lying. Yes, I—"

"Guys?"

And Ariadne's voice had seemed so far away, but at least the look on Eames' face as he'd turned to her had been just as surprised.

_(At least he'd not been the only one to forget she was there, then.)_

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes four mistakes._

_He insults Eames._

_He kisses Eames._

_Sometimes he does both at once, but when the job is over they part and he tells Dom that he doesn't think of either one._

_He says._

-—-

It was a simple route but Ariadne had gone down first.

All dressed in red, she'd been like a candle dying out. Little ball of red on a little red motorbike, swerving off into the dark until there'd been nothing but black. Blood had trailed behind her, black as ash in the light, and Eames'd almost stopped before Arthur yelled, "Keep riding."

"But we don't know—"

"—Keep riding."

The job was still unfinished, then, and they'd been oh so close. He'd seen Johansen, silver dart speeding ahead. A few more miles, and done.

_(He couldn't care. Not now.)_

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes five mistakes._

_He kisses Ariadne._

_He can't say why. There are reasons he can give (she's smart, she's beautiful, she has an air of Mal that he's always found attractive in a woman) but they all imply that he wants to. That it's not just a shot. _

_It has nothing to do with Eames walking by._

_Nothing._

-—-

It was a simple route.

But it'd been oh so clear, and he'd sworn in his head, had felt his jaw clench up.

"There's something wrong," Eames had said, as if Arthur hadn't known. Ariadne had honestly seemed not to though. She'd turned, eyes squinting, and had almost shaken her head.

"What?" she'd asked.

"It's too vivid," Arthur'd cut in. "It doesn't feel right. There's something mixed in to the Somnacin."

And Ariadne had tied it up, a nice and neat bow: "Like with Fischer?"

"Exactly like with Fisher," Eames'd answered her, but his eyes had been on Arthur, steely grey and tight and screaming with _"I told you so, I knew it."_

"_We're in over our heads and the road is simple but long."_

"Johansen's mucked up our stock," he'd continued, looking away. "Must have known we were tailing him for months."

"But how could he do that? Can he do that?"

Ariadne'd directed the question to Arthur but he'd already been on the bike, watching the restaurant. He'd known the plan: Johansen would eat, and then he'd leave. He'd take the bike when the valet brought it up and from there it was a simple route. One street, wrapping around parks and hotels and museums featuring Klimt on the side, and no turns. They'd just needed to get the info. The Fischer job had given them fame and glory but no guarantees.

This had been a second chance from Cobol.

(_There wouldn't be another._)

"We do the job and get out," Arthur'd said, and he'd meant it. The job was still unfinished, then, and they'd been oh so close.

(_He couldn't care, not then._)

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes six mistakes._

_He doesn't protect his investment._

_Saito is why he's doing this job. He doesn't need money or glory. He likes a good, carefully planned thrill but inception is impossible to plan, a splatter of paint that can turn either art or mess with a slight shake of the hand to the left. He's doing this for Dom, who's doing this for Saito, and Arthur almost loses him to imbo._

_He promises himself later that never again. A debt to Mal doesn't carry this far, to his life and sanity shaking on the edge. _

_He promises._

-—-

It was a simple route, but Eames'd filled the time driving it with enough questions that Arthur almost missed the turn for their apartment downtown.

(_He didn't call it 'their' then. It slipped out more easily than he'd like now, though_.)

"Why Piaf?"

"Why not?"

"That's a childish answer, Arthur. I salute you."

And Arthur had slowed, and stopped. He'd hit a traffic jam, and in the middle of July in LA. He'd leaned back in his seat, then, and cranked up the AC, but he still had felt sticky all over from the walk through downtown, the back of his neck clinging to the leather. He vaguely remembered unbuttoning a bit of his shirt, cool air hitting his neck.

Which Eames had taken as as encouragement to try again. "I'm genuinely curious," he'd said. "Why not something else?"

"You don't like Piaf?"

"Everyone loves Piaf. I'm just asking why. Cobb's not here."

And Arthur had shrugged, had said, "Mal chose it. I got used to it. Why the sudden interest?"

"Conversation."

And that was all he'd say, Arthur could hear it in the tone, and so he hadn't bothered to say more. He'd glanced around. They'd been surrounded by cars and a shimmering haze in the air that'd served as painful reminder of how outside and public they'd been, but no one had been really watching. People had been talking and texting and putting on make up and staring at the car in front of them like maybe, just maybe, it'd move if they thought hard enough, but they hadn't been watching.

And so he'd said, "We could do other things than talk."

"And whatever would that be?" Eames had asked, and Arthur had heard rather than seen the smirk (_he wished he had—he loved that smirk, shit-eating and dirty and cocky all at once and Eames and he would have done well to burn that into his memory_).

"Nevermind." He'd turned on the radio instead; had jumped a little when it'd been Piaf singing but it'd been okay. He remembered how he got there, then, and Eames'd been proof enough he was awake.

(_All they ever did in reality was play games_.)

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes eight mistakes._

_He lets Eames come._

_He lets Eames go._

_They're contradictory, but that's how it is between him and Eames, he thinks._

_He thinks._

-—-

It was a simple route.

But as security had run them down (_run them down hard, but there was nothing merry about the chase, Arthur thought, not when Ariadne might be dead or gone. A burnt-out candle on the side of the road, a washed-up candle on the shores of limbo, or a lit up candle jumping in her bed and wondering whether to wake them up or not_) and Eames had screamed in his ear, Arthur'd almost lost control and landed smack in a wall.

"Arthur, forget this! The job's a wash. We need to get Ariadne and make a break for it!"

"I can see him."

"Arthur—"

"Cobol's not going to let this go. I can see him."

And they'd swerved, bullets firing in a line, but when Arthur had turned round to look he'd been alone.

"Eames!"

"Fuck it, I'm getting Ariadne."

"You don't even know what happened to her."

"Well, I will know soon enough."

"And if she's in limbo?"

There'd been no response, Eames either not caring or too far away, and Arthur had revved the engine. Had watched the speedometer crank up. He'd seen Johansen, he had. One more lap, one snatch, and done.

The job had been unfinished but he'd been oh so close.

(_He couldn't care. Not now_.)

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes nine mistakes._

_He knows Dom's insanity but still idolizes him._

_His determination, his quick thinking, his ability to pick up a lie and run with it. Arthur is meticulous in his planning but throw a kink into his _

_works and he needs to think, to process, before he can redirect his thinking. Dom, by necessity, is always changing. Every crack in his surface is random, unable to guess until it comes, but he finds them all and shows them off as art, as simply part of the great performance piece that is Dominic Cobb._

_He knows, and still he does._

-—-

It was a simple route.

One street, wrapping around parks and hotels and museums featuring Klimt on the side, and no turns. Street lamps lined it; projections crossed it.

In his hand he had the info. Had memorized it easily. Just a snatch, and done.

Just a roll into the bushes, stolen gun in his hand and Johansen pressed against his chest, the gun to his temple. Just words dropping like missiles, clear and cold: "You're dreaming, Mr. Johansen", and "What did you do, Mr. Johansen?"

Just Johansen's voice, blade thin and just as sharp:

"I'm not your Johansen."

-—-

_On the Fischer job, Arthur makes one mistake._

_He thinks, when he triple checks his data, when he triple checks his extractor, that he has learned from his failures._

_Arthur doesn't make mistakes. He doesn't really understand what they mean. So he ups his caution, just a bit, and he thinks he's learned._

_He thinks, and he thinks wrong._

-—-

The other Johansen said, "You have to understand. Your game is changing."

(_"Oh, yes. Matthew Johansen, aged fifty three, wife Susannah Thomas, no children, twin brother Gary Johansen, parents deceased—all riveting, useful stuff."_)

He said, "It's not just a few power execs in the know anymore. It's everyone. Marques is just playing ahead of the game; figured he'd side with a company early, work for my brother as his own go-to mind thief."

(_"Marques has a lovely mouth and a knack for lying."_)

He said, "You came crawling around, and he told us from the beginning. He used his considerable resources to keep tabs on you, while you kept tabs on us—"

(_"Johansen's mucked up our stock. Must have known we were tailing him for months."_)

"—and, well, here we are."

There were more guns than Arthur could reasonably count, poking through the bush like steel branches, and his eyes clamped shut.

And the other Johansen said, "I really am sorry," before there was a bang and water all around, filling up his nose and mouth till he coughs.

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes one mistake._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later._

-—-

**to be continued.**

-—-**  
**

******"Chemicals Collide" does not belong to me, but Cloud Cult.**

Inception does not belong to me, but Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.

Thanks to Audley as always for the lookover and general reaction and for existing.


	2. Part II

**part two.**

-—-

"_I was out catching up to tomorrow_

_Or was I caught up in the past_

_These days it's hard to tell what's out in front from what's behind"_

_**Cloud Cult - "Chemicals Collide"**_

-—-

"_You don't need to do this job."_

"Is that Cobb?" Eames'd chimed in from the bathroom, but Arthur'd swiveled the chair around and bared his back. He'd shifted the phone, hot against his ear, but hadn't said a word, and eventually Dom had continued:

"_Saito's taking care of it."_

"Saito and Cobol aren't exactly on great terms."

"_He said he'd give them the info they wanted. He's not interested in that market anymore anyway. He thinks it's about to do a downturn."_

And he'd smirked, then. "Always a businessman."

"_First and foremost."_

"Yeah, well. It's an easy job. Probably would be a lot easier and it's get them off our backs for good."

"_That's not what Eames says."_

"Eames says a lot of things."

"_Sometimes he's right_."

"Sometimes."

"_Especially about you."_

And Arthur's eyes had wandered as he'd picked at a loose thread on his shirt (_and Eames' arms had come around him, he remembered, trying for a tickle before Arthur'd batted his hands away, had glared and scolded him off with anger he didn't think he meant, not now_), but it'd needed a response and so he'd sighed, and had said, "Sometimes."

"_He really does love you."_

"Hmm."

"_He does. He just won't say it because you won't, trust me. Mal and I could have played that game—"_

"—You didn't."

"_But we could have. We're both stubborn enough."_

"Can't deny that."

"_I'm just saying. You don't always have to take care of me. You can take care of yourself too."_

And Arthur'd dropped his chin on the back of the chair, and had let the phone sit hot against his ear in silence, because _what am I supposed to say?_

He'd never really done that before.

(_And why is that?_)

-—-

_Before the Johansen job, Arthur makes one mistake._

_He doesn't listen._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later._

-—-

The water was cold against Arthur's skin but he crawled up on shore only far enough to pull his head away from drowning before he collapsed again. The sand was hot, scalding as the sun beating down, and it wasn't long before he welcomed the water on his arms and feet. (His shoes, he'd lost . . . where? He'd slipped them off and they'd been carried away before he could clear his mind long enough to process it.)

He couldn't lie here forever. He didn't know how long the sedative would last, didn't know how long he was stuck here for. He had to do something to keep him sane. Find Eames, find Ariadne, knock some sense into them if they weren't lost already.

_Or maybe they're not here. If Ariadne didn't die, she wouldn't be here. Eames wouldn't be here._

He'd be alone, then.

He picked up his head and glanced around but there was nothing as far as he could see. Just more sand, more grey sky, more blazing sunlight than he could stand. Wouldn't they have built by now? Ariadne would be too afraid to try, to afraid of getting stuck, but he knew Eames couldn't resist the temptation this long. Eames, the gambling addict. He'd take a chance. He'd build.

So if there's nothing around but sand and sky, sea and sun . . .

_I'm alone._

But that was good. If he was alone, it'd be okay. He could handle it. Ariadne was tough but eventually she'd forget, she'd slip. And Eames, Eames would be lost in a few decades. Eames dedicated his waking life to getting lost, limbo would be no different.

_But if Ariadne's not here, then she's probably still injured._ She'd been shot in the stomach, he remembered. All dressed in red, she'd been like a candle dying out, a little ball of red on a little red motorbike, swerving off into the dark until there'd been nothing but black. But as painful as it probably was, it wasn't life-threatening, and he'd always thought it'd be better but now he wasn't so sure. How strong a sedative did it take to send a soul to limbo? Would she have to go a whole week? More? And security was still there, searching for them.

He'd be fine, in limbo.

Would they, in the dream?

He sunk back down, hands combing the sand, and when he felt a seashell he sat up threw it into the water. His grunt, the splash, broke the silence and he flinched. Frustration still knotted his stomach, pulling him down till his back hit sand and he curled in on his side.

He'd be fine, in limbo, but they needed him. They couldn't fight off security, not alone, not with Ariadne injured.

"Fuck," he said. The sound pierced the air again and this time he cringed.

_Sound in a vacuum, _he thought, looking at the ocean without waves. _It's unnatural._

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes one mistake. _

_He doesn't learn, and so he thinks he's right. And so he goes to limbo._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

Memories, mostly, that he couldn't forget. He had to be careful not to build. Limbo was malleable, more so than the regular dream. It begged to be shaped, to be your mind for you. An upturned nose as his wet shirt clung to his arms made his clothes dry. A wipe at the sweat collecting at his brow turned them into a tee shirt, a pair of shorts, breezy and light. But so long as he thought of things as the past, things he couldn't touch, he could mostly control it. A building would sprout here and there, but they were small things, buildings. Nothing to get lost in, nothing to distract from the sand and sky, sea and sun, and he could easily bring them down again.

So he filled the time with thoughts, keeping them all on a schedule. The Johansen job had top priority—he thought about it every hour (what he decided would count as one). He had to remember how he got here. It was always the first to go and lose that and he'd be stuck, really stuck.

Next was Eames. And Mal and Cobb and Ariadne, they were all on the same rung, they were.

_And yet not_.

He filled the time with thoughts of them all but too often it came back to Eames, lying on his bed the day after the Fischer job. He'd been fiddling with his poker chip, tossing it and catching it in the air, and Arthur was the one with suits and cufflinks and tightly tied Italian leather shoes but Eames had been the one who seemed so painfully clothed. Arthur hadn't said a word from his seat, a newspaper in his hands that he must have seemed to be reading, but his eyes lingered on Eames' forearms, sleeves pushed up past his elbows. His chest, top few buttons undone and a hint of hair curling out.

"You sure you don't want to come with me?" Eames had said, and Arthur had shaken his head again. "Mombasa is lovely."

"Mombasa is Cobol's backyard," he'd said, deja vu quirking his lips into a smile.

"Cobb survived."

"Barely."

"We could go somewhere else then. Somewhere . . ."

Eames had trailed off then, missing the chip and letting it fall on his chest (_thick, muscled chest, practically more ink than skin_), and maybe Arthur should have asked "What?" but he didn't. He didn't, and Eames had stood up and whatever had been there (_something he still couldn't name_) was gone as he said, "But, never mind. I should go. Thanks for the layover. Greatly appreciated, as always, Arthur."

"Right."

"Goodbye."

"Bye."

And Eames had left as he always did and as Arthur filled the time with thoughts (had more time for thought than he'd like) he couldn't help but think _and why is that?_

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes two mistakes._

_He doesn't realize the second at the time, and it seems a logical choice to make._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later though._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

The Johansen job came first, but Eames seemed to sneak his way in more and more, even in this. He couldn't remember where Ariadne stood, what exactly she'd say when she'd break into their pissing matches, but he thought he remembered Eames' laugh, the way his eyebrows had sprung up in surprise to see her there, in remembering she had in fact always been there.

Or he remembered Eames' eyes, steely grey and tight and screaming with _"I told you so, I knew it. We're in over our heads and the road is simple but long."_

Or he saw Eames' smirk, shit-eating and dirty and cocky and_ Eames_ and he would have done well to burn that into his memory but he knew he hadn't seen it, just heard it in the edge of his voice as he'd asked "And whatever would that be?" knowing perfectly well what Arthur meant.

_And why is that?_

But Arthur felt it slipping away though, the job, and if he couldn't keep Eames out he would have to build. Nothing big. Nothing to get lost in, nothing to distract from the sand and sky, sea and sun. Just the key things. He built the warehouse, careful to use every detail. The cobwebs that had turned his stomach but he'd never gotten round to cleaning, stretched out over the back windows in the space no one used. The three desks, shaped like a bracket, Eames to his left and Ariadne to his right because if Eames could monopolize his view he'd never get anything done. The one flickering light in the corner that Arthur hadn't felt like wasting money to replace, not when they'd be out of this place soon enough. The cement floor, the blank walls with the cracks in the plaster—every small thing in a small thing.

And then, eventually, he built the road. He didn't walk or ride it. It was enough to see it there, to know where it led.

He had to remember how he got here. It was always the first to go and lose that and he'd be stuck, really stuck.

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes two mistakes. _

_He doesn't realize the second at the time, and it seems a logical choice to make, so he makes it again._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later though._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

(He had to fill it with something.)

The job (_Johnson . . . Johansen_, he told himself, _Johansen_) had started so simply. Like any other. He'd called Eames. Eames had pretended not to get it, but he'd shown up, on time, at Arthur's apartment, a bag tucked under one arm and a rolling suitcase propped up against the door. He'd offered a smile and Arthur'd opened the door and there was always the question, of what greeting to give, and so he gave none.

And Eames' cologne had wafted into his nose, some brand Arthur couldn't name but smelled so rich and British and distinctly Eames, and instantly he had regretted not doing something more before he went on ahead and said, "So, Matthew Johansen."

(_And why is that?_)

The job . . .

The job . . .

It'd been twenty below zero, the day he'd first kissed Eames, but the alcohol had made him warm and Eames had been too, deep in a parka and scarf and gloves like he wasn't from London and shouldn't be used to this.

"Now the question is," he'd said, British more prominent with a bottle of scotch in him, "will you do this in the morning?"

"Probably not."

And he hadn't.

(_And why is that?)_

"I spy with my little eye—"

"—Eames. I am not playing this game. You see the—"

"—Someone who is French and dead."

And Arthur'd turned, but he had already known who he would see: Mal, sitting on a bridge, overlooking the water.

He had shrugged it off; had said, "Just a projection. She's harmless."

And Eames had asked, "When'd you meet Mal?"

"None of your business," he'd said quickly,

(_And why is that?_)

"Need some help with that needle, Arthur?"

"No, Eames, I do not."

"Because you haven't removed it yet."

And Arthur had pulled it out and glared; he'd said, "Just because you don't want to be here. You don't have to be a brat."

(_And why is that?_)

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

(He had oh so much time.)

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes two mistakes. _

_He doesn't realize the second at the time, and it seems a logical choice to make, so he makes it again and again._

_It costs him more than he'll remember later though._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

Memories, mostly, or things that felt like them. He didn't enjoy it. Memories were depressing. He looked back on his life and with almost a decade to fill, they repeated often enough for him to see his failures in too great detail for him to bear.

He remembered Mal, in her dress, as she'd sipped her Earl Grey tea and said she wasn't sure what to do with Dom's love of dreaming, she wasn't sure how deeply she wanted to delve.

(_He said, "I don't know. I don't really see the harm."_)

He remembered Ariadne, in business attire, hair wrapped up in a style that hadn't suited her as well as he'd thought it would, her lips soft and hurried against his.

(_He said, "It was worth a shot" but what did that even really mean?_)

He remembered Dom, in clothes thrown together on a whim, knocking at his door with tickets he'd snagged off some business man he'd sworn wouldn't miss him.

(_He said, "I'll go," because when has he ever not?_)

He remembered Eames. Just Eames.

(_There were too many to pick._)

Sometimes he imagined. Ways his life could have gone, things he could have done. He never could have been anything but a point man, he decided, but there were so many routes too complex at the time that captivated now. But sooner or later, he returned to reality. Before he could build, and he always felt it coming, the urge.

(He couldn't build. Nothing to get lost in, anyway. There was sand and sky, sea and sun, and it was important not to forget that.)

He had the warehouse, and the road. He didn't remember what purposes they served but he knew he came from them and he knew that was what mattered.

You had to remember your roots. Lose that and you'd be stuck, really stuck.

("_An old man filled with regret," as someone he couldn't remember once said—another failure to add to the list._)

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes two mistakes._

_The second he repeats, again and again, because he doesn't know what else to do._

_It costs him more than he remembers._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

(It was all he knew to do.)

He'd called Eames for some reason, and then he had been there. And Eames' cologne had wafted into his nose, some brand Arthur couldn't name but smelled so rich and British and distinctly Eames, and instantly he had regretted not doing something more.

(_He wasn't really sure what he did instead but the regret stayed fresh._)

"Now the question is," he'd said, British more prominent with a bottle of scotch in him, "will you do this in the morning?"

"Probably not."

(_And he probably didn't_.)

"I spy with my little eye—"

"—Eames. I am not playing this game. You see the—"

"—Someone who is French and dead."

And Arthur'd turned, but he had already known who he would see: Mal, sitting on a bridge, overlooking the water.

(_Someone so pretty shouldn't look so sad and he wondered why._)

"Just because you don't want to be here. You don't have to be a brat."

(_Just a line out of context, but he liked to remember it. It seemed to sum up things well_.)

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

(_And why is that?_)

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Arthur makes two mistakes. _

_He doesn't build. And it seems a perfectly logical choice to make so he never really does, not for decades. Not until there's really nothing left but sand and sky, sea and sun._

_It costs him so much more than what he knows._

-—-

Arthur filled his time with thoughts.

His life was a boring one. He walked the shoreline, watched the water. He had painted once but the image never changed. It was always sand and sky, sea and sun, and after a few paintings of that he found no joy in doing it again. Reading meanwhile he found useless. His books were incomplete, pages and pages filled with bleary text he couldn't read. And he couldn't speak as there was no one to speak to and sound, in a vacuum, he found unnatural.

So he filled the time with thoughts, with stories of people he imagined he'd once known. An architect (whatever that was) with a penchant for scarves. An extractor (whatever that was) who'd become cracked and broken but was still seen as art.

(The names were hazy, for these two, sitting on that edge of sky and sea that he often glimpsed but never could reach, but he remembered their roles. Their stories were always interesting)

And then there was Mal, whose stories made him sad.

And there was Eames.

Eames' stories made him sadder still, but Arthur still liked those best. As long as he stopped before the ending, he could pretend those were happy.

It wasn't a surprise to him when one day Eames appeared. It happened sometimes. He remembered shapes and thought about them long enough that they came. They weren't supposed to, he knew, but that was how he had books and painting so he'd eventually learned to ignore that nudging fear and allowed it.

It wasn't like he knew what most of the shapes did anyway. He mostly just liked how they looked. Which was why he was surprised when Eames spoke, the sound of it harsh against his ear.

"Oh, Arthur. Waking up is going to be quite the shock to you, isn't it?"

_What do you mean? _he there was light that wasn't sun and sound he couldn't name but it was loud and unnatural and his hands leapt to his ears and he shut his eyes but nothing changed (_'Closing your eyes and plugging up your ears won't make time stand still__,' _he remembered, from one of his books somewhere) and there was pain in his forehead and a whisper of "Pun intended, unfortunately."

And he woke up.

And he woke up.

And his hands leapt to his ears and he shut his eyes but try as he might, if time didn't stand still it wouldn't go back either.

-—-

_On the Johansen job, Eames makes one mistake._

_He won't realize until later how far the echo will carry._

-—-

**to be continued.**


End file.
